Can I Go Forward When My Heart

A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In Anger.

We Cannot All Be Masters.

The Weakest Kind Of Fruit Drops Earliest To The Ground.

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?